1812
by Brookebynature
Summary: He'll carve her name in the bullet so everyone knows she was the last thing that went through his mind. Chuck/Blair oneshot. Showbased.


**A/N- **Me again! Haven't had a GG story out here for a while, and since I'm even more in love with the series than ever (although a little...oh who am I kidding, A LOT of Chuck/Blair wouldn't go amiss) how better to show it than a little oneshot?

Chuck/Blair as always. I could write a whole series on those two.

Hope you all enjoy, and please review :) xxx

**1812**

A lot happens in that room now. Maybe not quite as much as before, maybe not as many trivial things like the strip poker and the filmed pillow fights participated in by the underwear-clad hotel maids. Maybe not the countless calls to room service for more blueberry pancakes and the 4am shots of espresso laced with tequila.

But bigger things go down in room 1812, harder things, longer secrets and hidden cries, stifled cries for help in the epitome of opulence and sheer unfaithfulness.

1812 has more secrets than the rest of the Upper East Side put together.

Chuck doesn't really live there anymore. He's been forced into the lie of happy families played out by his cheating bastard of a father and Serena's broken shell of a mother. His new bedroom, the one that isn't his suite, the one that isn't 1812 and full of failure is at the front of the hotel, facing out onto the roaring unsuspecting street below. It's situated cruelly between Serena's room that she's barely ever in, and the one his father shares with her mother, where nothing happens but turned backs and the harsh feeling of cold sheets across cold skin.

1812 saw Bart Bass making out with his secretary.

1812 saw Lily van der Woodensen (because she won't give up that name, not now, not ever) take off her wedding ring as she cried into her dainty hands, before putting the gold band back on again, settling her clothes before leaving through the double doors.

1812 has seen pretty much every brand of whisky there ever was. It's seen smashed glasses and brown stains on the extravagant shag pile, broken mirrors and illegal pills, blood-stained shirts and powder-covered hundred dollar bills, and yet it doesn't tell. 1812 is the best friend Blair Waldorf has ever had.

She wonders whether the maids appreciate the way that she removes her Louboutins upon entering so as not to leave marks in the carpet, or the way that she uses her finger with a slick of soap to rub off occasional scuffs the fallen bottles make on the bathroom's marble tiles. Perhaps, if she wasn't so bothered about being caught, she'd leave them on, let them prick spots of dirt into the cream shag as she bent down to rearrange each bottle in the cabinet. Maybe, if she didn't care about anyone finding out, she'd wear the au de parfum he bought her from that little perfumery outside of Cannes.

So when she enters again, Birkin in hand, Chanel sunglasses shielding her sad eyes, she removes the shoes she's wearing, dangles them loosely from the edge of her fingertips before shutting the door ever-so-quietly behind her.

His bed sheets, high in thread count and soft as silk against her cheek hide a multitude of sins, of hidden casualties and liquorice tears. The twelve scatter cushions, decided for the 

last two digits, in their suede and taffeta, deep in colour and rich in his cologne don't come as welcome relief, and she throws them, banging with her right hand until there's just one left on the bed beside her.

Her eyes, still hidden behind blackened shades, flick to the dark wood table next to her, to the antique clock she'd given him as a gift for his thirteenth birthday, because up until then, Chuck hadn't been able to tell the time.

Blair had never told. It's another secret 1812 keeps, and she cracks a half smile for the fact that her clock (because it always _was_ hers) is still there. Knowing he'll look at it every day (because even though he no longer sleeps there, his clothes are still there in the closet) gives her the smallest ounce of satisfaction.

**X**

Chuck knows she's in there. She seems to have forgotten that he knows she's the only one who figured out the code, and that there are security cameras in abundance if he ever cared to check the surveillance room downstairs to watch her.

He knows she enters at precisely 18:12, only to leave after ten minutes.

He knows she lays on his bed first, knocks the scatter cushions off, because when she places them back again in the precise way that only Blair Waldorf would, she gets the ordering wrong, leaving the two brown squares either side of the teal patterned taffeta, instead of on the back row.

She's not quite careful enough, Chuck's gathered, because the other day, she'd left a single curl of luscious chocolate brown hair.

He couldn't remember that feeling in the pit of his stomach since that night in the limo.

She roots around his closet, though he's not sure what for, perhaps only to brush her polished nails across his sweaters, the scarves he's accumulated from various stores swaying as their hangers glide across the rail.

She rearranges his cupboards, and it makes him a little mad, because then he has to move everything back again to the seemingly disordered jumble that it was before her presence. But he's not mad really. It gives him something to look forward to.

He'd thought about leaving her a note once. Not a letter declaring his undying love, but something short, something simple that would let her know he knew.

After the rumours circling at school that she'd been caught mid-purge with her fingers down her throat and a guilty look written across her face, he'd decided against the idea, settling instead in Serena's bathroom with a glass of scotch on the rocks and one of Blair's headbands.

**X**

She's late tonight. She closes her eyes as she slips through the doorway because she can't stand those digits anymore.

She doesn't bother removing her shoes, doesn't waste time sinking into the bed she'd rolled around in naked only months ago, heads straight for the bathroom instead, with its safe haven of Egyptian cotton towels and cold marble.

Her trembling hand reaches for the knob in the shower, though she's not sure why because nobody ever hears her anyway.

She lines the pills up along the tiles, smiles at her ability to be able to colour-coordinate them to her outfit before eying each one suspiciously, silently promising that they're the last resort if the blade doesn't do enough to satisfy.

This is the only option left for Blair Waldorf.

**X**

He stares ahead, slumped against the mirror in Serena's bathroom yet again as his fingers twirl the gun around, dusting the trigger meticulously as he counts the ten minutes from 18:12.

He won't use it tonight, promises himself that it's only the last resort, but playing with it anyway gives him the satisfaction he craves.

Since everything with Blair, nothing has satisfied him.

He fingers the scarf he's wearing, the scarf she'd picked out during one of their shopping trips, back when she was Nate's poster-perfect girlfriend and the two of them used to hang out while their mutual boy was hounded by his father.

Even though Chuck hates his own father, he'd rather be Bart's spawn than the Captain's.

Chuck isn't _jealous _of Nate, just pissed. His best friend had had everything handed to him on a plate, including Blair and yet he appreciated nothing, not the house or the chauffeurs, the clothes, the drugs, Blair's body...

At least he appreciated the few and far-between joints he lit up in that bathroom from time to time. And he didn't half appreciate that delicate milky-white skin that made his own skin burn as her chest heaved up and down under his wake.

**X**

It's not a scream of pain she lets out as she drags the metal across her tight skin, but one of ecstasy, or relief, of everything she ever kept inside.

And when she watches the red drip into the gold beside her, Blair presses herself into the wall, cold and comforting as the towel lays unused beside her, and the pills stay in their precise line by the sink.

It's when she catches sight of herself in the mirror that she shattered slightly only weeks ago, that she allows her lips to form a smirk, her left hand reaching for two pills, one from each end as she curls her legs around her.

She's never been this damn tragic in her life.

And until things go black, it feels good.

**X**

Ten minutes pass, and he throws another one in for measure before swallowing the last of the liquid in his glass, leaving it beside the sink for the maids in the morning.

He's not sure what he goes in there for after she's gone, but he does anyway, always lays on the bed where he knows she's laid only moments before. And even though there's no perfume left on those cushions, there's the smell of henna shampoo.

And Chuck Bass could fall asleep with that smell beneath his nostrils any time.

He tuts as he enters, spying the dents in the carpet from her pair of delicate heels as he eyes the cushions suspiciously, frowning at the brown square cushions sitting neatly on the back row, not where she usually leaves them.

And then a lump form in his throat and his stomach lurches as he realises the shower is running, and Blair Waldorf would never shower in shoes.

She's even paler than usual when he barges that door open, almost screaming her name as he stops dead at the sight of her beautiful silk dress fanned out beneath her limp body, his eyes not sure what to look at first: the blood, the blade, the pills.

Her face is contorted with a mix of pleasure and pain and for a minute too long, Chuck Bass is speechless.

"What did you do?" He asks as he bends down beside her, large hand holding up her head as her eyes roll, lifeless and hopeless, and all he wants to do is cry.

"Blair!" He shouts. "I said, what did you do?"

"Look around Bass." She breathes sarcastically with as much strength as she can muster, her eyes threatening to close at any minute. "It's pretty obvious what I did, even for a jackass like you to figure out."

She hurts him more than she'll never know, and more than he'll ever let her find out.

"How many did you take?" He asks bluntly, eyeing the fawn-coloured pills on the counter.

She's never seen him look more disgusted in his life.

Blair shrugs, partly because she can't actually remember, partly just because shrugging pisses him off. She'll just take what she can get now.

"Two, three?"

Her lips mumble something incomprehendable, and then that's all he gets before she shuts her eyes, her body turning into him as her hand drops to the floor.

And he doesn't panic, doesn't cry, doesn't shout, just heaves himself over the toilet bowl, because this finally confirms that Blair had never had any self-control.

**X**

"Don't." She croaks as he reaches for the phone. Her eyes are still shut and her skin is still cold, but she moves, ever-so-lightly, ever-so-slightly against him, her knees close to her chest as he lets out the shaky breath he's been holding.

"You need help Blair." He says softly, not patronizingly, but it's unwanted all the same.

"No." Her fingers tremble as she tries to grab his shirt. "I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

I don't want anybody to know...about this."

"Why'd you do it here?" Chuck asks, but when she doesn't give an answer, he doesn't press her.

He knows why.

"Can you just..." She opens her eyes finally, after what seems like a lifetime, and her hands fumble against his knees. "...Move me."

She seems so tired and broken that he does as she asks without question, closing his eyes as she lays limply in his arms, clinging to his shirt as though it's her lifeline.

Blair Waldorf is the best and the worst thing to ever happen to him. And if she'll be the death of herself, she'll be the death of him too.

**X**

Nobody comes to look for him, nobody calls, the maids don't knock and enter, and he's glad of the peace. He doesn't want to share the girl lying motionless in the exquisite bed linen, never had, never will.

He watches her chest, not in the way he usually would, but to make sure that it's still rising and falling in a regular pattern. And as she sleeps, Chuck kisses his way along the bandages he'd tied after he'd laid her down, breathing his relief into her wrists as though it might breathe life into her.

God knows she's needed some.

His eyes flick to the gun, and then his hands feel for the pen knife in his pocket, silently agreeing that he'll only use it if Blair doesn't open her eyes again.

And he'll carve her name in the bullet, so everyone knows she was the last thing that went through his mind.

"Chuck." She whimpers, letting tears fall down her cheeks as he plants the softest of kisses on her forehead.

"I'm here."

"Promise." She says, and for a moment, he's not sure whether it's a question or a demand. "Promise me you'll stay."

He doesn't have the heart to tell her he's supposed to be having dinner with his 'family'. But he doesn't have the desire to eat dinner with his 'family' either.

"I promise I'll stay."

"And you'll talk to me?"

"If you promise not to do this again. Ever."

She nods against the pillow, slowly, cautiously as she attempts to shuffle closer, not getting far until he shifts his body and pulls her gently towards him.

1812 has yet another secret.

And Blair smiles the tiniest of smiles, because she knows it won't tell.

Blair Waldorf is in love with Chuck Bass. _Shhhh_.

* * *


End file.
